


Father of Mine

by shellebelle



Series: How Bro Became Bro [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-09
Updated: 2011-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-24 10:36:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shellebelle/pseuds/shellebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a reason you don't use your name. Why you are ever and only just Bro.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song "Father of Mine" by Everclear

==>Be Bro

 

There's a reason you don't use your name. Why you are ever and only just Bro.

You don't reflect often. You're too busy for that. You've got this little kid that you're taking care of, several businesses to run, and constant training, because you can never let your guard down.

 

It's a hard lesson to learn, but you've learned it, and learned it well.

 

But another thing you've learned is never to forget, and to remember, you have to reflect. So you go up to the roof and think. It's like meditation, and like turning over pictures in a memory box. Some of the pictures are washed-out bright, as if there's just too much happiness to be contained in a picture, and some of the pictures are dark and dim and sad, as if the development of the picture went wrong.

 

But they're all yours, and none of them should be forgotten.

 


	2. Golden Boy

==>Bro: Be Five

 

The sun is shining bright as he carries you on his shoulders. You hide your face in your father's hat.

 

“Kid, that's why I keep buyin' you the sunglasses! Where'd you leave 'em this time?”

 

You grin and shrug. You can never remember where you left those things, and besides, you'd rather see the brightness than dim it. The sky is so blue and beautiful and everything is so bright and _awesome!_

 

Your father laughs. Your mother is walking next to you both, carrying the beach bag. She smiles, and pats your leg. It's a beautiful summer's day and you're going to the beach with your parents, and the sea is a brilliant blue-green, and the sky is deliriously blue, and the sand is warm and tan and everything is just the best ever!

 

You are five years old, and you feel safe and warm inside. Your mom and dad watch you from the beach as you play in the waves and nothing can get you, absolutely nothing, because you are the center of the universe, and you are cared for and loved.

 

Your father looks like you, pale blonde hair and freckled skin and your mother keeps telling him to put on more sunscreen. You're already coated, of course, and your mother is also blonde, but more like honey, thin golden hair that almost floats around her pretty round face. Her eyes are blue, like yours.

 

You live in Louisiana, and your father catches crawfish and your mother is a waitress. They're both painfully young, but you don't know that.

 

You sleep in the sun warmed backseat of the car as night falls and your parents talk softly in the front seat.

 

When you have bad dreams, your father is there to chase all the monsters away, to tell the scary things in your closet to leave you alone. He'll stroke your hair and talk to you as you fall asleep again.

 

After school, he's always there to greet your bus. He gets your snack. When mother comes home, he greets her affectionately. They tell stories, stories of how they met, and how they dated, and how they got married. Your father tells you how he gave you his own name, because he wanted everyone to know that you were _his kid_ and that he was so proud of you.

 

And you are a bright kid, inquisitive and brave. You're smart. You get told this every day.

 

You're surrounded by love. And you are safe and warm inside and out.

 


	3. My Whole World Disappeared

==>Bro: Be six

 

You remember when the safe, warm feeling ended.

 

The exact day. The very hour, the precise moment.

 

You even remember how it smelled.

 

It smelled like beer, and sounded like broken glass and the whip-snap of a slap on a woman's cheek and a frightened gasp.

 

It looked like a pair of scared eyes peering out from behind a curtain, and like tears in your mother's blue eyes as she backed away.

 

It sounded like voices, adult voices, accusing, yelling, crying.

 

Begging.

 

Doors slamming.

 

Your mother sees you, after your father has left the room, and motions frantically. “Go. Upstairs, don't let your father know you saw that. Please, sweetheart, go.”

 

Your mother looks so frightened that you're frightened too. You hurry upstairs and turn on your TV, slapping in a videotape of _The Muppet Show,_ which you watch while huddled under the covers. 

 

You know it's probably not the first time that's happened but you also know that till then, they'd hid things pretty well from you, acting the parts of a happy family for longer than it's been felt. It hasn't felt quite right but it was also okay.

 

Now it wasn't okay. 

 

Over the next few years, your parents struggle to make things work. You live for the times when things are good, when your father is employed and when he doesn't drink. When he doesn't hit your mother. 

 

When he doesn't hit  _you_ . 

 

The first time he did it, he apologized, sobbing, on his knees. You wanted your family back so badly, you'd do whatever he wanted so that things would be 'better'. He'd tell you what to say when people asked about the bruises on your face and arms. No one saw your backside so all the better. 

 

Sometimes, you'd even pull a performance to show how clumsy you were. You just wanted that warm, safe feeling back, you wanted it back so badly. 

 

But after a while, he stopped apologizing to either of you. He began to relish his power, to see how far he could make you jump when he pulled your strings. 

 

You remember when you turned seven. 

 

And he left. 

 

You never felt safe again.

 


	4. The World inside Your Hand

==>Bro: be seven

Your mother cries a lot. She misses your Father, but she's terrified of him too. She loved him. Loves him.

You? You don't need him. He's a bastard and your mother is better off, even if you don't have much money.

This is what you believe. What you tell yourself, when you need to.

You wake up to your mother's frantic rousing. Father's home again, and he's high and pissed.

And as much as she wants to love him, she loves you more.

“We have to get out, baby. Now. Come on, come on, please, I'm sorry, come on, come on, come on...”

You move faster than any little kid should move. You can get a weeks worth of clothing together in about one minute flat. And, for good measure, you help get your mother's shit together too.

“Where the fuck is my son?!” Your father sounds crazy angry, and he's every nightmare you've had in the past month or more. Your heart is pounding in your chest and you can hardly breathe.

You're ready, you've got your blankets and your mother helps you out of the ground floor window in your room. She hustles you out, quickly, quietly. You get into the backseat of the car and huddle on the floor, scared, your heart thrumming in your chest like a bird's. Your mother tries to start the car and it fails twice before turning over. Each time it fails, you're terrified you're going to piss yourself.

But the car turns over and she speeds away. You huddle on the floor of the backseat under blankets with your hands shoved into sock puppets. You don't have toys and you barely have friends. But you have sock puppets that you make out of worn out socks, and you talk to them and they reassure you.

Sometimes, if you try really hard, you can make it sound like they're talking to you out loud.

==>Bro: Have a birthday

You travel a lot.

The car is a safe place to live as long as you both stay huddled beneath blankets at night and don't move. Your old beater of a car is big enough, your mother is a small woman and you're scrawny for your age.

Your mother worries, but you haven't found a place to light yet since your father found you the last time. She does what she can to support the two of you. The diner where she works allows her to park her car in a darkened corner of the lot, and the manager has been kind to you, but you know your mother's ashamed that she can't do better.

She tries to hide it but when she cries, you feel your heart break.

You don't expect anything, but on your birthday, she brings you inside the diner after closing. It's late but it's a special occasion. “You only turn seven once, babycakes.”

You have leftover spaghetti and meatballs, and it's the best meal you've had in weeks. There's even slices of cake, and your mother sticks a worn candle in it so that you can make a wish and blow it out.

“Don't tell me what it is, just make it good. Maybe you'll get it.”

You look at your mother's tired face and you just wish that she could smile again like she used to.

==>Bro: Be nine

You don't want your father to find you again.

But he does. He always does because your mother wants you to go to school and he can always find you. You've run and run and every few months you're gone again and tonight is no different. Your mother comes home after work and her face is streaked with tears, and you know that it's time to run again.

You're an old pro at this by now, though. You've had a huge growth spurt this year and you get yourself and your mother out of the house, grabbing her car keys when she can't make her fingers work for trembling. You shove the driver's seat of the car all the way up and pile blankets on the front seat and start the car while your mother sits in the passenger seat in hysterics. She's in no condition to drive, paralyzed with fear and just plain desperation.

You are nine years old and your childhood is non-existent. When you are at home alone, you spend your days talking to the homemade puppets that are your only friends. You lock yourself into your apartment and worry about your father knocking on the door, worry about your mother walking from the bus stop in the dark, worry about the police sirens going down your street.

You speed carefully, watching out for police, till you get onto the highway, and then you slow to speed limit till the next rest stop.

There, you try to calm down your hysterical mother, and you get out the map, to see where you'll go next.


	5. Scared White Boy

==>Bro: be ten

Recovery is hard. And no one understands.

Your mother has worked very hard to get you into an apartment, to find a job. The job is decent, but the neighborhood is rough, and you stick out like a sore thumb everywhere. School is difficult.

You come home with a lot of bruises.

You don't care. Your mother is safe.

Your mother has changed your name, your last name. You wanted her to change your first name too, but you didn't have another in mind. But she wanted her maiden name back, and you agreed with her.

 _Strider._ You like the new name.

Too bad you still hate your first name, but you don't know what to call yourself, and your mother thinks you should choose your own name now. You think she's right.

Sometimes, you find it difficult to keep breathing but you know that your mother has given up so much for you to be safe, and that's _why_ you keep breathing.

You're terrified sometimes, at the rage that goes through your body, you're afraid that you'll be like _him_ , afraid that even though you haven't seen or heard from him in months and months that his sins will find you out. That you'll be a monster someday, like him.

You escape those thoughts with your puppets, stupid things still made out of old socks or discarded stuffed animals, but they're _yours_ and you can make them do what you want. You know they're not real, therefore you can be as cruel to them as you want, or make them listen to all your most awful secrets.

As your eleventh birthday comes and goes, you feel empty and lost. And you want something, _anything_ , to fill up that lostness.

It's a good thing your mother doesn't drink.


	6. Birthday Card with a Five Dollar Bill

==>Be eleven

You got a card a few days before your eleventh birthday.

 _Happy Tenth Birthday, Son!_ There's money in it, as if that will fix everything.

Your mother sees your face when you open it, and she starts up, holding her hands out in a calming gesture. “Sweetie-pie...”

You don't know what you look like, but you know what you feel like.

Rage.

There's writing in the card and you read it but  
 _dearsoniamsosorry_  
no  
 _sosorrysoverysorry_  
you don't accept  
 _ididn'tmeanititwasthedrugs_  
his  
 _itwasthealcohol_  
lame-ass  
 _verybusygottogocallme_  
apology.

You start by tearing up the card, all the lying words and he lost an _entire fucking year_ of your life when he wasn't _lookingthinkingbeingthere_ and now it's just you and your broken mother and a shitty apartment and a bad neighborhood and so you take the lamp and smash it against the floor, again and again and again and your mother is trying to get you to

 _Please, sweetie, calm down, please, I'm sorry..._

but you don't want to calm down because when you calm down you'll feel worse than you do right now and rage feels so  
much  
 _better_  
than sad and pathetic and lame.

You're rampaging through the living room, smashing shit, finally running out of things to hand and then you just pound your fists against the floor, screaming and sobbing and finally--

You lose it and your mother is behind you, holding you tight, murmuring softly into your hair and you howl and you feel her startle behind you and that's what makes you break down, sobbing. You bunch both fists in your hair and you can't stop.

Its only just before you fall asleep in your mother's arms on the wrecked livingroom floor that you realize your mother is crying too. But she just keeps stroking your hair and whispering how much she loves you and that she's sorry, so sorry--

\--and you're sorry too, that she even has to say those things.

The next day, your mother keeps you home from school, and you help her clean up. She takes you out to lunch and you talk carefully around each other.

After you come home, you hole up in your room with your puppets and a VHS tape of The Muppet Show and jack off, then cry yourself to sleep.

Your mother doesn't have the heart to wake you for dinner, obviously, because you wake near ten o'clock and you can hear your mother weeping in the room next to yours.

You wish you knew where your father lived so you could make him pay.


	7. A Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _When the student is ready, the teacher will appear._ ~Buddhist Proverb

==>Bro: be ready

You sometimes miss what you and your father had, but it's so far away now, and you have other things to deal with: namely, getting beat up every day. The slouch in your shoulders isn't one that you like, the sun in Houston is hot and burns your too-pale skin, sometimes your mother worries you'll get skin cancer, even with sunscreen. Your mother worries too much about you. You wish she wouldn't. Since your meltdown, she's been working harder than ever, at work and at home. She's trying to spend more time with you, but your heart is just aching for something you can't have, aching for a purpose of some sort.

But, honestly, you're just tired.

You're tired of the fighting, you're tired of being bad at school, you're tired of friendlessness and helplessness and hopelessness. You feel sick with how incredibly _lame_ you are.

Crows gather on your windowsill and you wonder if they're trying to tell you something.

One night, your mother brings you to a gym you don't know. It's dimly lit but quiet. There are a few men doing _katas_ , a few men sparring in a ring. There are even a few people working with _swords_ and what the hell sort of place is this?

Your mother is holding your hand, and you hold on a little tighter. Your mother is looking around, searching for someone or something, and then a man puts down the sword he's fighting with and comes over to you. He is tall and muscular, but slender, and he walks as if nothing and no one could ever hurt him. He has light brown skin and almond-shaped eyes, and a shaved head.

“Mr. Cheng?” Your mother's voice sounds uncertain.

The man's face breaks into a smile. “Ah, you pronounced it right, thank you. Ms. Strider? And I would guess this is your son?” He looks at you, and he's not nearly as frightening when he smiles.

But you don't like strangers. You don't smile back.

“Yes. I was hoping that you could take him on as a student.”

You look up at your mother in surprise, and then around at the people working out. There are no other kids, none at all. The man standing in front of you might as well be a giant. And you: too tall for your weight, too much bone and not enough muscle, and you have bad skin and bad teeth, all the hallmarks of living dirt-poor and hand-to-mouth.

There's no way...

“And how does Mr. Strider feel about that?” He bends from the waist to look you in the eye. Or try to.

You have learned that talking only serves to have one more thing for people to mock you for, but you mutter, “I dunno.” You sound like a backwoods hick and you know it, and you can't look at this man.

He straightens up to look at your mother again. “Did you bring what I asked you to bring?”

She takes a folded piece of paper out of her bag. “This is what he's been eating for the past two weeks. I provide a balanced meal, but...” She sighs slightly.

“Good. And the other thing?”

Your mother smiles shyly and takes out a plastic container. “Cajun Red Beans and Sausage, my own recipe.”

“Ah, yeah, that's what I'm talking about...” He beams at your mother. “I miss the bayou, sweetie, you just gave me a night of pure love.”

Your mother blushes— _blushes!_ and puts her hand on your shoulder, then crouches down to talk to you. She tilts your chin so that you look at her. “Sweetie, I'm gonna to let you visit with Mr. Cheng, and he's going to talk to you for a little while, and I'll be back here to get you.” Her brows furrow down as she caresses your cheek. “It's killin' me to see you so unhappy. You're better than this.”

You hate when she talks like that, because it makes you want to cry. Your lip wobbles but you don't want to cry _here_. She kisses your cheek. “Behave y'self.”

And then she walks out, not looking back. You look after her.

“So _di di_ ,come on into the back...I'm starving and we need to talk.” You jump when Mr. Cheng speaks, and follow along with your hands jammed in your pockets, head down.

You don't look up, even when he sits you down in front of his desk. He opens the plastic container and starts eating, you can tell because you can smell it. He opens up the paper your mother gave him and scans it.

“Fuck damn, _di di_ , your diet is shit.” He leans over and flicks your forehead with his finger. “How the hell are you even alive?”

You rub your forehead and shrug again. “Why y'keep callin' me _di di_?”

“Wow, more than two words in a sentence, good job. I call you that because it means 'little brother' in Chinese. I'm Chinese—well, half. This is my studio, and this is where I teach. I was recommended to your mother by someone who works with her and she ran a background check on me. That's how she knows I'm not a creeper, all right?”

You nod.

“Look up at me, kid. I'm not going to eat _you_ for dinner.” He taps on the desk impatiently.

You look up at him, and you feel,

every inch of you

poor

white

trash.

Your mother isn't, but you are. (Your father told you often enough, the kids at school tell you, and you feel bad enough that you believe them.)You are still half-convinced that your mother is whatever passes for royalty in New Orleans, where she grew up. Your father always called her a princess (the only thing he ever got right) and you believe that wholeheartedly about her. She worked hard to soften her accent, to get her high school diploma and go to night school to get the administrative assistant job that was keeping them in that apartment.

“Your mother is scared shitless for you, kid. I know you've been through some hard times, you and your mom, but it's time to make a decision. Whether you're going to let this keep you down, or whether you're going to get up and start _living_.”

You sit there and you don't know what to say. You aren't sure what you've been waiting for, but you recognize you have been waiting for something. You swallow. “What...what should I do?” Your mother has worked very hard to get where she is, and you know that she loves you more than anything in the world.

You don't want her to worry anymore.

“Good question. Number one: start eating your vegetables, little man, and whatever your mother gives you for dinner. Once we start working, you're going to want to eat everything in sight. Number two: water. As much as you want. No more soda till I tell you you can have it. And number three: Posture. Stand up.” Mr. Sheng gets up and comes out from behind the desk.

Startled at his movement, you stand.

He gestures at you. “See, look at you. Anyone watching you walk will know: this is a kid I can beat up, and he won't say a damn thing about it.” He slouches, like you. “Look at my chest. Can I take a deep breath like this? No. How do I look? I look defeated. Like I could care less about anything. But you do care about stuff. Like your mom, and like all that bullshit with your father.”

It's like a switch turns on. Your head snaps up and suddenly you're burning with anger. “ _Fuck_ that wastebag!”

“There.” He looks satisfied with you. “Look how you're standing. Not perfect, but better, your head is up and your back is straight, and you look alive, _di di_.” He draws out the 'i' in 'alive' and grins at you.

Though you are still glaring at him, your face relaxes a little. But your lip trembles.

You don't know when the last time someone besides your mother—another _adult_ —had taken an interest in you. Your heart feels like it's about to burst, and you're about to cry, and it didn't take much at all to bring you to this place.

He stands in front of you, and bows from the waist again to look into your eyes. This time, you meet his eyes, even though it almost physically hurts to do so, and you know he can see all the _pain_ and _sad_ and _sick_ in them.

You clench your fists in your shirt hem, willing yourself not to look away even as tears flood down your cheeks.

“You are the student I have been waiting for all of my life,” he says. “Will you work with me?”

You just blink your eyes at him. “Yer crazy,” you whisper. Tears are dripping off your chin.

“Maybe so. But will you?”

“Yes.” The word leaves your mouth without thought, but for once, you know it's the right thing to do.

He straightens up. “Name's Calvin Sheng. But you're going to call me _ge ge_ , which is 'Big Brother' in Chinese. I'm not here to be your father, but I will be your brother. Which means that you call me up when you need me. Even if it's three in the morning, you hear?”

You nod. He doesn't look scary now, not at all. He gives you a few tissues and tells you to clean up while he calls your mother and tells her that he'll drive you home.

You work hard that night, harder than you've ever worked in your life. Every muscle in your body aches. You make a concerted effort not to whine when he tells you to run faster or do one more sit up, just one.

But he knows when to stop, and he tells you to hit the showers, and for once, you don't argue. It's the best shower you've ever had.

He drives you home. Tells you “after school tomorrow,” and you know you'd better not be late. It feels good, to have somewhere to go.

When you get in the house, you hug your mother hard and kiss her cheek, and then go off to bed without a word.

You have never felt so good.


End file.
